


You've Made Me a Forest Fire

by arthureameslove



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Avatars in love, Desolation!Martin, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, alternate season 4
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-17 13:07:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28725597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arthureameslove/pseuds/arthureameslove
Summary: Martin had always been angry. Always at something. Often himself. It was a part of him he kept carefully tucked away, smothered, buried. He'd learned, quickly, to keep that ugly part of him away from prying eyes. He kept the heat under his skin under control, and, unlike his father, never let it touch anyone else.No one told him how hard that would be, once everything he cared to pretend for was gone.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 12
Kudos: 58





	You've Made Me a Forest Fire

Martin supposed he had always known, even before Elias delighted in telling him, deep down. He’d always known he was utterly like his father. 

He hadn’t remembered what his father looked like, not before that day with the lighter in his hand and Elias’ cruel eyes digging around in his head. But Martin remembered snippets of him. He remembered broken china, shouting that boomed through the thin walls, rage that shook the foundations of the house. 

Martin would take care to clean, afterwards, as his mother sobbed and his father had stormed off, the echoes of the slammed door still rattling in his head. He’d take care to keep his shoulders hunched, eyes down, voice small. Already, he was getting too big, too wide, too much for her.

He would take care not to snap when she did, even as he felt anger bubble up under his skin. He took care not to let it show on his face, to keep his head down.

Over the years, it became so second nature, he almost convinced himself that was who he was.

* * *

It was much the same, very quickly, with Jonathan Sims. Martin should have expected it, really. The constant, near-scathing criticism to his face, and the even harsher insults into the whir of the recorders. 

He’d been foolish enough to think, after so long getting by in the library, that he’d be able to do well in the archive.

That hope vanished after his first work review. He remembered sitting there, as Jon tore into the quality of the case files he’d completed, fingernails digging crescent moons into his palms and eyes locked on Jon’s desk. He remembered mechanically keeping his breathing even, swallowing around the tightening of his throat, desperately willing away the heat that rushed under his skin and behind his face.

He’d actually been proud of them, was the funny thing. He’d put in the hours—it didn’t come naturally to him like with Sasha or even Tim, but he’d put in the work. He’d thought he’d gotten by well enough, but it appeared not.

Never good enough. Never right. Too much. Too little.

And he remembered, the exact moment, when he’d started to feel _angry._ He hadn’t ever learned how to do this. It was clear Jon thought he was a bit simple, a bit slow, and he _wasn’t,_ he just...

He just hadn’t even been able to finish sixth form. 

For a wild moment, Martin wanted to tell him. Cut him off and just tell him, then and there. See that mildly annoyed, dissatisfied look on his face fall away in favor of shock. Brown eyes wide, mouth agape. Silent, stunned. _I’ve managed,_ he wanted to say. _I’ve kept my head above water, what have you done?_

The urge burned under his skin, to drop the information like a bomb and watch it all explode around him. His skin felt hot, too tight to fit over his bones.

“Martin?” he heard Jon say, the annoyance in his voice making it clear it wasn’t the first time.

Martin blinked up at him, taking a shuddering breath, burying the desire deep. “Sorry,” he said, keeping his voice mild, small. “What was that?”

* * *

Jon wasn’t cruel. Not naturally, not without something driving up his walls first. 

It took a few months for Martin to understand this, after dozens of mugs of tea meant to placate. In the hopes that Jon’s comments would smooth over and away, so Martin could more easily ignore the prickling heat under his skin, the flame that burned in his stomach that made him think of half empty liquor bottles broken against the tile. 

It was...a startlingly simple revelation, Martin realized, as they sat side by side in the storage room waiting to die by Jane Prentiss’ hand. Jon wielded his anger clumsily, ill-fitting armor against the world. Against the fear of being thrown, unprepared, into a position he didn’t think he deserved, into a world where the rules were quickly ceasing to make sense. 

Jon wore his hostility to keep questioning eyes away, and Martin...Martin kept his buried away, the molten core of it smothered under years of practiced smiles, lowered eyes. The facade of trembling, clumsy fingers that he could pass off as fearful.

Martin cherished the new knowledge, and, slowly, a different kind of heat ran through him with every mumbled, distracted “thank you,” Jon gave him, every absent smile.

* * *

And then, the Unknowing. 

Martin tried to make himself useful, tried to help in the only way he could think how. It didn’t seem like nearly enough. 

Not when Jon was—

When he was going to—

Well. It made him feel a kind of helpless that even he wasn’t used to. 

And then, Elias.

Elias who had lied to them all, who pulled them all along by strings, kept them in line with threats and curling, self-assured smiles. Who made those circles under Jon’s eyes deeper, darker, and had him pouring through statements well into early morning, running him ragged, doing nothing when he was peppered with holes and scars.

Martin was so very angry, every inch of his skin prickling with heat, and Elias didn’t believe it possible of him. Martin had packaged himself too small, too timid, too passive. He felt too tight for his skin, suffocated. 

It was a true joy, then, to set another page alight under Elias’ watchful eye, and watch his face, for a moment, flash with fury. 

Martin wondered, for a moment, what Elias’ skin would look like shriveled and blackened, mouth contorted in an eternal scream. 

The thought was, surprisingly, utterly calming, not so much snuffing out the heat in him, but...giving it space.

From a cramped house fire to a forest fire. 

And then Elias was digging into his head, showing him his father’s face with the flame red hair that Martin shared and he thought, _oh. Oh._

_No wonder._

* * *

A few months after Jon blew himself to high heaven and tore out Martin’s heart with him, he stared down at his mother’s grave. He felt heat flood his face, blood rushing in his veins, his breath catching with it. What had it all been for? 

Everyone who had ever come close to caring for him, everyone who Martin cared about, was gone. Sasha was dead. Tim was dead. Jon was dead. His mother was dead. And despite him staying by her side, dutifully, making himself small, agreeable, something to be stepped on, she had never once told him she loved him. 

Neither had Jon. Even when, sometimes, in the quiet moments and late nights in the institute, when his fingers would brush over Martin’s when he’d handed over his mug, and the touch lingered and Jon just _looked_ at him—

Even then, when Martin would think, _oh. Oh. Maybe._

But then Jon would just...pull away, let his eyes drop, and Martin would be left desperately trying to snuff out the heat under his skin and in the tight cage of his lungs.

Martin remembered the way Jon had faltered, that morning they left for Yarmouth. Remembered how he’d turned and looked back at Martin, his eyes raking over Martin’s face, his mouth opening, trembling, his breath curling in the cold air between them. 

But that emotion in his face had been carefully tucked away, and he’d said instead, painfully, “be safe.”

Martin stared down at the grave site, thinking of Jon’s voice breathing out those words, the last one’s Martin could keep of him, and thought, how unfair. How unfair, to ask that of him. 

Being safe meant keeping small, keeping quiet, keeping his head down. Being obliging, keeping his head, as Elias lived and Peter Lukas taunted him with the Lonely, as Basira grew colder and as Melanie bared more teeth. 

He didn’t want to stay safe. 

He wanted to loosen his hold on everything that buzzed under his skin. He wanted to scream.

He wanted to burn.

* * *

When he returned to the institute, his feet moved while his mind drifted, and he found himself opening the door to Jon’s old office, now taken up by dust and cobwebs that he would have cowered away from, if he were alive. If he hadn’t left Martin alone.

Something hot and sharp burned in his chest. Maybe it was his heart, but how could it have been?

He’d been so sure Jon had taken that with him.

He stared at Jon’s desk, and thought about the last time he’d ever felt anything but small, anything but useless. It had been in this room with a lighter in his hand, statements ready for the burning. The first time his hands had ever felt steady.

 _For him,_ he’d thought then. _For him, for him, for him._

He stared at the empty desk, and thought, _it had been all for him. But he’s gone._

Whatever was left of his heart cracked open. And Martin Blackwood burned.

He took the institute with him, and everything that lay in wait underneath.

* * *

And, in the same moment, the Archivist woke up.

**Author's Note:**

> I just...really wanted to explore Martin as a desolation avatar. I think he's neat!
> 
> Next chapter will conclude this little exploration with Jon's POV after he wakes up, because you bet your ass I'm not ending this so angsty.


End file.
